Philosophy Lesson
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: [DMC] Night comes to The Black Pearl. Norrington and Elizabeth find something to talk about.


He lay, crumpled, in his hammock, half-asleep. The pirate with the wooden eye had been quick to tell him that the previous owner of this hammock was long gone to the depths, and would most likely haunt whomsoever rested his head in said hammock. The ship gave a great lurch beneath them, and the makeshift beds all swung in unison, like oversized potato sacks. Norrington groaned at the sudden movement, turning uneasily onto his other side, clutching the nearly empty rum bottle to his chest. Nearby, he heard the low sound of steady breathing. He could almost recognize the individual sleepers by now.

The throaty growl was emitted by his ex-navy compatriot and former subordinate Mr. Gibbs. A tongueless snore somewhere far-back and a parrot's chirrup from Mr. Cotton and his bird. A forest of sleeping, grubby men, and yet the most familiar noise was absent, when it had normally been so clear. There had not been a night Norrington had fallen asleep without it.

A sound he'd hoped he would hear every night for the remainder of his lifetime. He'd recognized it the first night, and had clung to it in the darkness of the ship's hold.

Another lurch beneath him, and Norrington rolled limply from his haunted hammock to the hard planks below. He didn't even bother to hiss in pain. The rum bottle rolled away into darkness. Not a single pirate stirred at the noise. Norrington pulled himself shakily to his feet, grabbing the bedding to steady himself. He pressed his burning forehead against the balled fists clutching the hammock, grasping at any bearings he had left.

He needed some air.

Carefully, Norrington moved up the brine-covered steps to the deck, using every hand-hold he could find. Oh, he could brave a storm to be sure, but the alcohol coursing through his body was more than he could take steadily. His booted feet finally came to the deck, and a fresh, sea-flavored breeze caught in his languid hair. The black sky opened, and the stars filled his vision from horizon to darkest horizon. He was caught in a bowl, and the stars were his only company.

Not his _only_ company, as he was to find out.

Staggering, Norrington reached the railing on the starboard side, leaning almost ridiculously over. The dark sea lapped hungrily at the side of the ship, and Norrington watched, transfixed. He had never taken any of his time as a Commodore, or even a captain, to inspect the sea like this. Closing his eyes, he could imagine the fish swimming, without notice of the hulking ship above them, carefree-- slipping through water as a bird through air. Free. He smiled vaguely against the wind, then buckled as he retched violently into the waves.

Coughing, he pulled himself back to his full height. He turned his head slightly, and finally noticed the cat-like eyes that had watched him since his appearance on deck. Embarrassedly wiping his mouth with his already filthy sleeve, he grinned a cocky half-grin and turned his eyes on his watcher.

"Good evening, Elizabeth," he prompted.

"You've been in the rum again." It wasn't a question, or even pretending to be one. Her arms were crossed firmly across her chest, head tilted to one side and hips slightly off-center. A motherly stance? Norrington swept his eyes over her, then leaned forward onto the railing again.

"Yes, I have." He answered as plainly as she had. He breathed deeply, catching the sea-salt-air in his nostrils again. It was a release-- if he tried hard enough, he could almost feel the Commodore hat upon his head. The thought turned to sand in his mouth. "And I would be most thankful if I were to find another bottle." Elizabeth remained at her distance. Norrington wondered vaguely when was the last time he had washed the grime from his face.

"That vile drink has ruined lesser men," she said from her safe position. Norrington raised a questioning eyebrow that he found ineffective in the darkness.

"There are lesser men?"

Finally, she stepped closer. "I've heard enough of that," she grumbled. "Commodore or no, there is a good man in that skull of yours."

"Your vote of confidence in duly noted and appreciated," Norrington sighed, looking up as Elizabeth sidled up beside him and copied his leaning pose, "but I'm afraid that it is misplaced. I'm a pirate against the King's navy-- bound to hang, if your story is correct."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that a man can exist as a pirate _and_ a good man?" She asked, stretching her arms out before her and interlacing her fingers. Norrington averted his eyes, feeling an unexplained but understandable blush rise to his face.

"The morals are all wrong," he tried, not finding his own explanation satisfactory. "How can one commit acts as a pirate and call himself a good man in good faith?"

"Then it's philosophy, is it?" Elizabeth chirped, grinning in the starlight. "The actions that a man chooses and what paths they lead him down?"

"Something like that," Norrington said half-heartedly, wishing he had a rum bottle to hide his face in.

"If a man, committing an act of piracy, saves the lives of many men, can he call himself a good man?" Elizabeth asked pointedly. "And if a man allows a pirate, in good faith, to commit an act of piracy, unpunished, in order to better the lives of any amount of people-- is he a good man or a pirate himself?" Her mischievous grin shone even in the dimness. Norrington held a hand to his temple.

"Tell me if the alcohol is clouding my judgement, Elizabeth, but I believe you are speaking of my letting Sparrow have a day's head-start on our chase around the globe?" He watched her shrug innocently, staring out to sea.

He cocked his head, watching the reflections dapple on her fair face. She turned, and he smiled at her reaction.

"If I may use my own examples?" Norrington asked. Elizabeth nodded. "In any given situation, one may say, there are certain actions that a pirate would adhere to, and decisions that one as a good man would not make whereas a pirate would take advantage of these situations." He waved a general hand to the sea. "A good man and a pirate are faced with the same decision-- an attacking fleet has cornered off any chance of escape for an entire ship, where a longboat might flee unnoticed. A good man would protect his ship and his crew. A pirate would abandon any one of his crew for the chance to save himself."

Elizabeth gave him a shrewd look, as if to refute his claim. He shrugged, then faced her, crossing his arms and leaning sideways against the railing.

"Elizabeth is displeased." He smiled vaguely, and paused in thought. "Given another situation, let us say a pirate and a good man are standing here, where I am. Seeing you, the good man would keep his distance, allow you your space, no matter what he is feeling in his heart." Elizabeth's smile turned down almost on cue. "A pirate," he continued despite her change, "would use the situation to his own advantage-- corner you with your own words, trick you into thinking what you may never have thought in the first place."

Elizabeth had a sinking feeling that she didn't like the turn this conversation had taken.

"Now I ask myself," Norrington said with studied slowness, "am I pirate, or a good man, as you claim?"

Then, the saddest, most helpless smile tugged on the edges of Norrington's lips before he turned away to the sea. The stars danced against the black water, melding sea and sky.

"I am, and always have been, a good man," Norrington said in a low, weak voice. "Or, at least, I try to be."

The sea spoke when neither of them had the nerve to break the silence.

"James--"

"Too much of a good man, and not enough pirate?" Norrington asked, looking toward Elizabeth again. She looked away, and Norrington gave a silent, shrugging laugh. "I'm glad you're happy, Elizabeth. At least one good thing emerged from this mess." He pushed himself away from the railing and nearly tumbled into the mainmast, if not for Elizabeth's quick reflexes.

Clutched close to her, his face nearly buried against her shoulder, her breath fast on his neck, Norrington tried his hardest to look away from her eyes, but couldn't sever their tie. Every latent feeling burst from its shell and filled his eyes, laid bare for her to drink in. She was not surprised. Several times, he almost moved closer, almost completed their circuit, almost gave in to every primal wish he'd felt since that day atop the fort.

But he pulled back, pulled himself to his feet, one hand on the mainmast for support. His lost eyes carefully locked onto his boots. Painfully, he looked up once more, to the flush-faced woman before him.

"Not enough pirate," he echoed, then turned back to the stairs. She made no sound, and, he thought, it was for the better. He stumbled back down into the hold, the stars disappearing from sight overhead. A bottle of rum poked its head out of Gibbs' pack, and Norrington seized it with one hand and slung himself back into his hammock with the other. He tipped his head back and shuddered at the biting liquid that dripped down his throat.

An hour later, he heard the gentle sounds of Elizabeth's footfalls, and, soon, her calming, sleeping, steady breath. Norrington closed his eyes, sighing to himself, before topping off the bottle and falling into a dead sleep.

* * *

AN: I don't really support a NorryLiz coupling-- I really just love my Norrington angst, and Elizabeth reeeally helps in that department. You can tale it any way you want-- I just don't want anyone to flame me. I'm Irish, I burn easily. Have fun, happy reading!  



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